by JA Huss
“Nope,” he says.
I nod as the elevator doors open.
We step inside and descend.
Chapter Four - Chella
I met Rochelle Bastille about six months ago. I say about, because I’m not really sure when she first appeared in my life. The only thing I know for certain is that I first noticed her last July while I was at Buskerfest at Union Station. She was one of the street performers. A strikingly beautiful girl, but not in any of the classical ways that I often notice.
She was like a throwback from the Sixties. Long, straight, dirty-blonde hair with flowers weaved through braids on either side of her head that ended up as a chain of daisies.
She was singing. A church song I sang when I was a little girl. She strummed a guitar and even though Buskerfest is nothing if not wild, it was like she had a little sphere of silence surrounding her performance area.
That was the first time I noticed her.
The first time I met her was in a second-hand book and vinyl store half a block down from the art gallery I manage on the 16th Street Mall. It was about two weeks later, maybe. I was looking for a gift for my father’s sixtieth birthday. He’s a man who has everything and needs nothing. People like him require very thoughtful gifts or no gift at all.
I have tried the no-gift approach and didn’t find it quite got me where I wanted to be with him. So this year I made a commitment to find him something meaningful. Something he’d notice. Something that would show him that I cared. Remind him that I was still interested in his opinion.
Henry Walcott really is a man who has everything and needs nothing. But he’s sentimental about Sixties pop music, especially if it’s on vinyl. So I was in the bookstore that day to pick up a 45 that I had asked the owner to try to find for me.
Rochelle was in there at the same time. When I walked in she was chatting with the owner, so I decided to wait my turn over in the used book section.
That’s when things started to unravel, I think. That innocent trip to the used book section. That prominently displayed first edition copy of Nicole Baret’s The Longing propped up, front and center, inside the rare books case.
The Longing. It was an urban legend up until nineteen seventy-nine when a whole cache of books was found in an attic. It had been rumored that only two hundred copies were printed and that attic had all two hundred of them.
It makes me wonder… did Ms. Baret self-publish them? No publisher came forward to claim them. Ms. Baret died two decades before from an overdose while she was at a sex club. And if she did self-publish them, was there more than one printing? How could all two hundred copies of The Longing still be boxed up in someone’s attic when the book was legendary? Everybody knew about it. So how could they know about it, if no one ever read it?
It was such an intriguing mystery in so many ways.
“Do you think it’s real?”
I remember whirling around in the store, startled by her soft voice. She was wearing a long dress made of pale yellow velvet that day, even though it was hot outside. It was low-cut, so her cleavage was ample and there was no way—I don’t care who you are, man or woman—to avoid looking at it, it was that beautiful.
When I got over her tits, I looked up into her blue, blue eyes and recognized her from the carnival. “I don’t know. I heard they were all auctioned off at Christie’s thirty years ago.” I stopped and shook my head. “I just don’t know who would sell it. And here?” I crinkled my nose. “I love this store, it’s great and all, but how did The Longing get here?”
That’s how it all started. With me trying to be a good daughter, and then Rochelle, asking me, a girl who had everything and needed absolutely nothing at all, about that book.
A book I really did need.
I bought it. There was no way I wasn’t going to buy it. I paid eleven thousand, two hundred, and seventy-seven dollars for it. The owner thought I was nuts. He talked about it every time I went in the store for the next three months.
But by the time three months passed, Rochelle and I had already started making plans.
When Smith Baldwin came into the closet to release me, my head was pounding. I was scared and nervous. Mostly nervous. But he was nice. I think. I don’t know him, but I think that was him being nice. The way he dressed me, chose my clothing—my shoes, my coat, even, and then that jewelry. When he fastened the clasp on that gold collar around my neck I got a chill through my whole body and knew… that all the decisions I had made to get to this moment in time were justified.
The walk downstairs was exhilarating. I was so sure he knew I was up to something. But maybe he thought my shuddering body was just fear? Or nerves? Or a combination of both? Because he was silent until we stepped out of the elevator and Elias Bricman asked Smith if he wanted him to take over.
“No,” was all he said.
A very firm no.
Then it was a whirlwind of activity and I tried not to notice people I really wanted to notice. All eyes were on Smith as we left. He’s the kind of man you can’t help but notice.
He’s also the kind of man you don’t demand attention from.
When he promised the guest of honor that he’d be back, a little stab of jealousy pained my heart. Would he go back for her? But no, I decided as we walked to the waiting car and he opened the door for me. No, he told her to start without him.
I have an idea of what they do down there in the basement. Rochelle was very upfront about what this deal was. Smith Baldwin, Quin Foster, and Elias Bricman were her partners in a very dirty game called Taking Turns. And since she was already in a game with them, she wasn’t allowed down in the basement levels of Turning Point Club to play a different game. She had never been down there. Three years she’d been dating them and she had no idea what it looked like.
Of course, we spent long nights imagining. It’s not hard to imagine naked bodies slick with sweat. Various bondage apparatuses. Groans, and moans, and orgasms.
I slip a finger between my legs, the soft silk of the red dress I’m still wearing fluttering along the skin of my hand, then my arm. I’m so wet. That one touch from Smith had me so wet. And the way Quin fumed at me. So softly and so hard at the same time.
Did you miss me? God, I missed you.
Why the fuck would Rochelle walk away from that?
She would never tell me. Just said she was done and left it at that. But she didn’t want them to think too hard about her disappearance and that’s where I came in.
The replacement.
My alarm goes off on my phone and I realize I’ve been sitting here in the dark since I walked in the house after Smith dropped me off. When I got in the car he asked me where I lived and told the driver when I answered. But other than that, he never said another word until we pulled up in front of my townhouse down on Little Raven Street near Coor’s Field.
When the car stopped, I said, “Do you want to know my name?”
“No,” he said.
In the same firm tone he had told Bric no.
I got out and came inside. Sat here on my bed. Alone in this massive four-thousand-square-foot townhome feeling cold, and alone, and empty, and discarded. Staring out at my view of Coor’s Field, lit up, but empty. Kind of like me.
It didn’t work. Rochelle’s plan didn’t work. And I wonder where she is now? I wonder, after hearing how upset Quin was, if he’s looking for her?
I wonder if she got away?
I can’t, for the life of me, understand why she’d give them up.
The whole scene was… surreal.
I could hear them on the other side of the closet. Quin was loud. I had no problem making out his words. Bric was soft. I didn’t hear much of his conversation at all. But Smith… Smith was neither loud, nor soft. And I had to strain. Try very hard. But I did hear what he said.
He was done with Rochelle.
The alarm is still wailing at me to get up, get ready for work, get on with my day.
If things had gone different
ly I’d be calling in sick this morning.
I sigh and stand up. I stretch my legs, which are cramped and stiff from sitting here in the same position all night. And then I walk into the closet and start taking off the clothes that Smith chose for me.
I hang the dress on a wooden hanger and hook it on the back of the door so I can have it dry-cleaned and returned. One by one, I remove the jewelry, placing it all very carefully into the velvet-lined drawer in my closet. I look at that gold collar with longing, feeling the soft brush of Smith’s fingertips as he fastened it around my neck.
It gave me a moment of hope. That it might be a symbol. Or a claim.
“No,” I say out loud, repeating the single word Smith uttered to me in the car.
No. It is not to be.
I get in the shower and clean up. Wash Rochelle’s make-up off. Wash my hair, and then condition it. And let the hot water run down my body and ease my mind and my aches. My many, many aches.
When I get out, I dry off and put on a soft, white robe. I settle in on the vanity bench on front of the mirror, and try not to look at myself as I dry my hair and apply new make-up.
I dress like an automaton. The outfit is still wrapped in the plastic the dry cleaners in residence placed it in. Everything I need is there. The soft pink scarf, the cream-colored silk blouse, the tan trousers, crisply creased. The only thing missing is the cropped pink jacket with tan piping, because it’s been given its own plastic bag and hanger.
I slip my feet into a pair of nude-colored Louboutins, don’t bother to check anything in the mirror, and then walk down the two flights of stairs, past a whole other floor of empty, but professionally decorated and furnished bedrooms and bathrooms, until I get to the kitchen.
I feel numb but I am used to this feeling. So I make the single-serving cup of coffee, put in the two packets of artificial sweetener, add one teaspoon of half-and-half, and clamp the lid on my travel mug.
I am happy to be going to work.
It’s a mantra I say often. But it works, because it’s true.
Work is the gallery. Work is people whom I have to direct and interact with in order to check off the tasks on my daily list. Work is art installations and maybe, if I’m lucky—and today, I am—meeting with the new artists who will be on display for the next show.
I have a lot to do today and calling in sick would’ve been a bad idea. But Rochelle showed up yesterday afternoon and said it was time. This was my chance. Did I want it?
Yes.
Yes, very badly.
I will never see her again, I know this. So she will never know that her plan failed.
I am happy to be going to work.
But I don’t work tomorrow. Or the day after, or the day after that. We are only open Thursday through Saturday. It’s Monday today, but Mondays are not open to the public. It’s just a meeting day.
How will I get through the rest of my empty days knowing that I have nothing to look forward to?
I call my father on my way into my three-car garage. I have a reserved parking space in the parking garage near the gallery, so I’m driving today. It’s damn cold outside and it’s going to snow this afternoon.
“Chella,” he says, neither happy, nor sad. “What are your plans today?”
“Oh, you know,” I say in my fake-cheerful voice. “Just gonna meet Matisse today.” I even smile into the phone as I start my C-class Mercedes. That is kind of a big deal.
“The artist,” he deadpans. “That’s nice. Are you seeing the doctor today as well?”
“No,” I say, starting my car. It’s so cold in here, a puff of thick steam exits my mouth when I talk. “I was there just there yesterday.”
“On Sunday?” I can practically hear his eyebrow lifting up. “Don’t bother lying to me, Marcella. I’m not your keeper. I’m just asking.”
“I’m checking in to say hi, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m very busy today. I have meetings all morning. And I’m sure you’re busy too, so we’ll talk another time.”
“OK, Dad.” I fake a laugh. Like his dismissal is so typical and doesn’t bother me at all. “I will. We’re still on for Christmas?”
My heart thumps several times before he answers. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it home.”
“OK,” I say. “I understand. But soon, though, right?”
“Sure, Chella. Soon.” The call ends and I drop my phone into my purse, telling myself that call doesn’t matter. Not one bit. That nothing he says can hurt me. That I make my days good—or bad—not anyone else.
The drive to work is so short it makes me feel guilty for not walking. But it is cold today. My bones are chilled. And I had to leave my shearling boots at the Turning Point Club last night.
I did leave there with thousands—probably tens of thousands—of dollars in jewelry though. So I can’t really complain about the exchange rate.
The Charles Benton Gallery takes up an entire corner on the 16th Street Mall, which is a pedestrian street, so buses run up and down the length of it, and horse carriages at night, but that’s it as far as vehicles go. The people, however, are a whole other matter.
Hundreds of people are on the mall, even at nine AM when most of the shops are not open. This is the central business district and everyone comes for coffee and food.
Matisse’s artwork is being delivered at ten today, so I have an hour to get things ready. I make my way through the crowds, searching through my purse for the keys to the front door, when I see him.
Smith Baldwin is standing in front of the Charles Benton Gallery, and he’s staring right at me.
I stop walking for a moment and some lady curses at me for almost making her spill her coffee.
I hold my breath and count to three. Then I start walking again.
“Hello,” I say, putting my key in the lock. “We’re not open today.”
“I know when you’re open, Marcella Walcott.”
He uses my full name. And he even pronounces it right. With a hard ch, and not an s sound for the c. Mar-chella. Emphasis on the chella.
“I thought you didn’t want my name?” I ask, unlocking the door as I shift the coffee in my hand.
Smith takes the coffee for me.
“Thank you,” I say.
He says nothing.
When I wrangle the door open, propping it with my hip so I don’t inadvertently invite him in—Charles might be here already and I do not need him seeing me with Smith Baldwin—I say, “Can I help you with something?”
“I’m going to need to know where she went,” Smith says.
“Who?” I ask, trying to buy myself a moment to collect my thoughts. Rochelle and I talked about the lie for months. Building it up, making it perfect, making it believable.
“You know who,” Smith says. “I don’t really fucking care, Marcella. I have no feelings for Rochelle either way. But if she’s in trouble, I’d need to know that. If she’s hurt,” he says. “Or there is something going on.”
He stops talking and sighs. Like this is hard for him. “I don’t care, OK? I really don’t care. But Quin does. And he’s upset. So if you know where she is, if you have a number, or an address, you can give it to me and I’ll keep him away. I’ll contact her myself and get the details. And then we’ll be gone. Out of her life forever. But leaving like that, Marcella. You’d have to know—she had to know—it would hurt him.”
“Maybe she wanted to hurt him?” I say. I don’t know why I say it, it just comes out. I have pictured them all together. The way she described Smith was dead-on accurate. And I think she was right about Quin too. I didn’t see enough of Bric to come to a conclusion.
Smith is silent. Just stares at me.
“And for the record,” I say. “You sure don’t sound like someone who doesn’t care.”
I step inside, close the door behind me, and lock it. Looking Smith Baldwin straight in the eyes as I do it.
I turn away and walk to the back of the
gallery where the stairs are that lead up to my second-story loft office. And when I get to the top and look over my shoulder, he’s gone.
Chapter Five - Quin
“I want her name, I want her address, and I want to go upstairs.” I’m looking at Bric, but it’s really Smith I’m talking to. Bric will give in on the request to go upstairs, but Smith… Smith is another matter. Why did I let him take that girl home last night? Why didn’t I do it myself?
I was in shock, I think. That Rochelle would do this to me. To them, sure. Yeah, I can see it. But to me?
I just don’t buy it. I will never buy into the fact that Rochelle just walked out because… what? She was bored? I have to suck down the incredulous laugh that threatens to escape. Because she and I were not bored. She loved me. I know she loved me. She told me just a few months ago.
It was hot that night even though it was already September. We were at one of Bric’s rooftop garden parties here at Turning Point Club. She was wearing this long, strapless white dress. Tight at the top, but fluttery and flowing from her waist down. Rochelle is tall and she was wearing heels, so we were almost the same height. She looked me straight in the eyes as we slow-danced under the many strings of white lights that Bric has strung up every summer.
Her face was tanned from months in the sun. We went boating a lot last summer. Up in Granby and Grand Lake. Spent our two days a week up there just hanging out like normal people. So the lights—God, she looked so fucking beautiful as we danced under those lights.
“I love you,” she said. Almost absently. Like the words just came out. She got embarrassed then. Hid her face by laying a cheek on my chest.
I didn’t know what to say.
I liked her then. Hell, I’ve liked her this whole damn time. But love… love wasn’t part of the game. We can’t play the game if we fall in love, and I like the game. I was picturing Bric and Smith hearing about her confession. Picturing what they’d say. Picturing them throwing her out. Dissolving the contract. And maybe that’s what she wanted? Why she said it.
